


Oswald's Caretaker

by SlytherinPride2292



Series: Penguin Imagines / One Shots [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, Penguin and reader imagine, one shots, oswald and reader imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18115883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinPride2292/pseuds/SlytherinPride2292
Summary: For my tumblr follower, ahsfan23:Oswald Cobblepot is in Arkham. You're the sweet intern, who is new to Gotham. Despite what Dr. Strange and his staff say, you see the patients as human beings, not as prisoners. Especially one in particular. This one-shot/reader imagine is rated T.





	Oswald's Caretaker

 

 

_Gotham is the not the place for you. You’re a sweet, kind girl, I’m sure. But maybe, for your best interests, you might want to look elsewhere for employment. This city isn’t like the others; it’s mean…Rotten to the core. If you don’t corrupt_ it _, it, most definitely, will corrupt_ you.

 

It wasn’t the first time you had heard those words. Those specifically had come from your current employer; in spite of his warnings and cautionary tales of Gotham’s corrupted streets and the people that inhabited it, you were…Well, you weren’t really ‘persuasive’ in nature, but you certainly had a way about you that made people consider your words carefully before they reluctantly surrendered to whatever request you made of them.

The request itself had been simple: “I’d like a job.”

It was simple, sweet, to the point. Spoken in not such a doe-eyed, meek tone, but having been frank and matter-of-fact. There was no question mark at the end, and while you hadn’t been aggressive or strong-handed, the Arkham Asylum director could not turn you down.

“Here are the rules,” he said. “You will follow the nurses, and the doctors. You will do as they say, when they say—by no means should you be alone with the patients; after all, you’re still an intern…I use that word _very_ loosely by the way.”

You looked at him pointedly: “‘Intern’?”

“No,” he almost laughed. “‘Patients’.”

He described the ‘patients’ as being criminally insane. You could hardly refute that description as being ‘wrong’. After all, every patient in that place had been accused of doing something abhorrent: matricide, patricide, homicide, genocide—all of it was macabre.

“You’re not native to Gotham, so I doubt you’d know the history behind the city’s notorious criminals, but trust me. While some of these patients _appear_ to be sane, I assure you, they are not. All of them are violent, loathsome, acrid creatures.”

_Creatures_ , you thought. _What an odd way to describe humans._

Despite what the director felt, thought, or even instructed of you to understand…You valued humanity at its most primal. Sure, a man could kill. But he could feel too. And if a man could feel, he still had humanity, and therefore he—you reasoned—was still a human being.

However, to keep your job, you placated him: “Yes, sir.”

He seemed satisfied enough, grunting with satisfaction at your surrender to his way of thinking.

_Acceptance_ , you assured yourself. _Not surrender_.

With that, you started your job in Arkham Asylum as an intern, working side-by-side with the patients, the doctors, more importantly Mrs. Peabody and her primary physician, Doctor Hugo Strange.

Now from the start, you had an inkling about Strange. A strange man, he was, and he was awfully taken to you. Not anything perverse or pungent, but your seemingly innocent, honest, however naïve, nature astounded him—puzzled him, even.

“May I ask you something?” He said as the both of you went to visit a patient—it was their first intake, he had mentioned; the first visit was always a stressful one, and while having a second person in the room might not ease the patient, it was a learning experience for you.

With the patient’s consent, Strange explained, you could attend the intake…With assurance, the patient would not object, Strange said, but that seemed to sound more like a passive threat rather than a reassurance of trust and rapport. You paid mind to those tinted glasses that ever so slightly obscured your vision from meeting his eyes, and that is what made you feel so uneasy around him.

For a psychiatrist of sorts—even the Head of Psychiatry, especially—this man who was an expert in feelings, personalities, allegedly reading and understanding the mind and behavior of humans, was most certainly inhuman. He spoke with a steady, monotonous drawl, and his mannerisms were cold, and unfeeling.

“Miss?”

You startled, smiling nervously as you said, “Yes, doctor?”

“I’d like to ask you a question in regards to your employment, and your interactions with the patients in the past six months.”

Ah, you knew this would happen. Apparently, the nurses and other medical staff with whom you’d worked had reported you. Why else would this have come up?

“Sure,” You said, shrugging. “Ask away.”

“You’ve been in the patients’ rooms.” He stated. Not a question, per se. More like a statement with a requirement of your confirmation.

So, you gave that to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were alone with a few of them.”

“Yes.”

“And you…”

“I hate to interrupt, but what’s your point, exactly? Have I done something illegal?” You asked softly.

“No…Not inherently so. However, the director mentioned that you have a sort of attraction to the patients.”

You feigned curiosity.

“Attraction?” You repeated.

“You like talking to them.”

“Yes.”

“You like interacting with them—I’ve seen you genuinely smile.”

“Well, some of them are funny.”

“They are criminals, Miss.”

“So?”

He blinked. So, did you.

Even _you_ had to remember what just escaped your mouth. ‘So’? Well, so what? So, you liked talking to some of the patients. So, some of them intrigued you, even welcomed you with friendly chatter in return. Yes, some of them acted egregious and you wouldn’t want to spend ten more minutes in their room, but some of them…one in particular…He didn’t seem harmful; he didn’t even seem that dangerous even when he’d been admitted to Arkham.

Admittedly enough, you _had_ become attracted to one patient specifically. He went by ‘Penguin’ outside, in Gotham, but in here, he was called his true name: Oswald Cobblepot. His name was so odd, you thought first-hand, that it already had beckoned a sort of soft feeling for him. Warm, tangible, and it was a warmth you hadn’t felt for another human being, at least not one that tugged on your heart strings.

“ _So_?” Hugo Strange repeated slowly, as though the word itself seemed unfamiliar to him.

“Well…” You quickly came up with an explanation, excluding the one that was the truth. “I just think that this is a hospital and, sure, some of them are criminals—”

“—All of them are criminals,” He interrupted you.

“And they’ve been through enough, don’t you think?”

“They’ve done things—aggressive, hostile, malevolent things to other people. Take no pity; have no mercy.”

“But you’re their doctor. You should want to help them.”

“I _am_ helping them. And sometimes what help they need is not necessarily the help they _want_.”

You let that sink in.

You knew of what measures he spoke.

_Shock therapy_. That hideous machine that sat like a dirty secret in the basement. No, you never had been down that elevator—the doctors and nurses didn’t permit you to go. However, the screaming that bled through those iridescent walls left you staring at the ceiling over your bed for nights at a time.

For a town so allegedly cruel. For a city that spoke of dark deeds and the mistrustful dark people that inhabited it, the cruelest seemed to be the people who claimed to help those lost souls. It didn’t set well with you, not at all.

“Of course.” You said flatly. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“I’ve been doing this for years. I _am_ right. Soon, you’ll understand that too.” He spoke the words so eerily calm, it made the hairs on your arms stand on end, the chill creep up your back in harsh, unwelcome shivers. That said, he smiled pleasantly, and asked: “Did you still want to sit in on this intake? It would be a learning experience.”

You politely declined.

* * *

 

Oswald Cobblepot was reputably a cold, unforgiving lout. A man who went by Penguin, who killed people that crossed him, who was opportunistic as he was clever, but for all his ambition, intellect and self-preservation, he’d landed himself in Arkham Asylum. A self-fulfilling prophecy of woe.

You watched him from your place against the wall; your back to it, while your arms were crossed lazily over your chest. Per the Arkham policy, your intern outfit matched the nurses, including Mrs. Peabody; so naturally, you wore a white long-sleeve shirt, matching skirt, and, despite the complaints of the females that worked there, were still mandated to wear heels. The two-inches were tolerable; the three-inch and four-inch that came standard were not.

The patients were in what the medical personnel referred to as ‘social time’. They were congregated into one sitting room; either a team building exercise was going on that involved increasing communication in all of them, or it was just to build camaraderie in what you were sure was a drafty, miserable place.

You’d almost quit. And yet, this man, Oswald, always kept you there.

Not against your will, and he really didn’t even have that much interaction with you. It was for his sake that you stayed, but for all his irreputable wares in the past, this man was not the same person he’d come in as he was before.

Oswald Cobblepot was much more docile, a sweetheart. Not a violent bone in his body. Even when someone tried to steal his ice cream, he was the first to apologize for something he never did or tried to do. He would be extremely nervous when forced to go down to the basement.

_Shock therapy_ , you recollected. _Poor thing_.

Aaron Hellzinger, a large man with the mind of a toddler, approached Oswald as though to claim a dessert that did not belong to him. Egged on by someone probably. Seeing as Oswald would not protect himself or even try to reason with the man, you approached Aaron before the latter could dispel a single harsh word.

Aaron opened his mouth to speak: “He has my dessert!”

“You _had_ yours.” You said, standing beside Oswald, who remained sitting, perplexed in the instant you intervened. He looked up at you, in his black-and-white striped standard-issued prisoner—sorry, _patient_ —uniform, puzzled, indeed.

“No, I didn’t!” Aaron argued.

“If you didn’t have your dessert, why is it that you have vanilla ice cream on your chin? Hm?”

You caught him. Aaron quickly wiped his chin, and looked as though he might have a temper tantrum. You put your hands on your hips, ready for the furious, loud outburst that usually accompanied the middle-aged patient’s ringing pouts but he became subdued by your stern gaze.

“Say you’re sorry, Aaron.” You instructed, firm in tone as you were with your eyes.

Aaron grumbled.

“Say it _louder_.”

“Sorry!” He shouted, looking at Oswald, who stared back at him incredulously.

“Good job. Now, go and watch TV.” You said, pointing across the room.

“Okay…” He muttered, and he left to do as he was told.

You watched to make sure Aaron had completely gone, then you turned to Oswald, smiling when he still looked puzzled, but, on the whole, relieved by your intervention.

“Are you okay?” You asked sincerely.

Oswald nodded and said happily, “I am glad you came around. I was starting to get a little apprehensive for a moment. It’s a good thing you intervened when you did!”

“I was happy to.” You said, beaming.

“You’ve been working here for a while.” Oswald noted, pointing at your nametag. “I’ve seen you around. Heard your name on the intercom.”

“Well, I’ve seen you around as well.”

“Seems like an interesting place for anyone to work.”

“I know,” You admitted, smiling in spite of it. “Oftentimes, working here, it’s hard to distinguish just who exactly the prisoners are: the patients or the people who care for them.”

Well, that certainly wasn’t supposed to come out! You quickly put your hand to your mouth, surprised by your lack of filter, expecting Oswald—like any other patient—to tattle on you, repeat your words verbatim. However, there was the ever so slightest quirk of a smile, like it was tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You…” Oswald began, but he hesitated. Choosing his words more carefully, he continued, “You are not from Gotham. Are you?”

“I am not.” You confessed.

“May I ask why you came to the city?”

“Why, are you going to tell me it’s an abhorrent town full of corrupted assholes who want nothing more than to putrefy anything and anyone that comes within a mile of it?” You asked, allowing your cynicism to leak through… _no filter._

Oswald chuckled. It wasn’t characteristic of him, at least not the soft, fluttery, nervous laugh you were so used to. This quiet laugh was almost genuine, like he was sincerely entertained by your statement, even by your cynicism.

“Why are you snickering?” You asked, unable to hide your smile.

“If you’re not careful,” he said, smiling, “you’ll sound like the rest of us.”

“So, it’s true? Gotham is a sewer, basically.”

“Basically. But it’s also home.”

“I wouldn’t know what that is.”

His eyebrows furrowed, knitting together, more curious by your airy, almost detached tone that accompanied your dry words. However, as a gentleman he was, he didn’t dare pry. Perhaps he understood the patient-to-intern prohibited guidelines. Really, you’d divulged more about yourself to him than you had done to anyone else that worked with you, and that was saying something.

Usually, you were so private, so reserved and conservative. Shy, perhaps not. But you certainly kept to yourself more times than not. Sometimes, being successful and just seemingly shy kept the monsters at bay—lingering on the shore, waiting to dock, but still, they kept their distance. And that’s really all you wanted.

Until you met Oswald.

He said your name. Your _first_ name, not the last by which you were normally addressed. Hearing your name spoken from his lips, in his voice—your heart skipped a beat. And you smiled.

“Yeah?” You returned.

“How much longer are you going to be working here?” He asked hopefully.

“I don’t know. If Strange has it his way, he’d probably get me discharged in a matter of weeks. My internship will end in about two or three months. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Oswald said, smiling still. He gestured to the board game in front of him. “That gives us time to play a game or two, don’t you think? Or…Is that permissible?”

“It’s a social gathering, for everyone.”

“Is it?”

You sat in front of him, looking at the chess board, saying, “Maybe not, but until someone tells me otherwise, we’ll make pretend that I didn’t understand the rules.”

Oswald chuckled, “For someone who is not native to Gotham, you fit right in with the rest of us.”

“Honestly, if it were up to me, I’d be a patient here rather than an intern.”

“Then you would be in treatment.” Oswald stated, taking the white knight, bishop, and pawn off the board.

“True, but then, I’d spend more than two to three days a week here. That’s all that my internship allows…Two to three days.”

“Why would you want to spend more time here than needed?” Oswald asked incredulously. As an afterthought, he added, “Which would you prefer?” He gestured to the pieces on the board.

You smiled at him sweetly and said quietly, “Why would I want to stay, indeed.”

Subtle as possible (since the nurses were keeping a close eye on you now), you reached over the chess board, touched his hand and as you took the soap-colored bishop from his hand, your thumb stroked over the back of his.

Oswald was not naïve, nor was he as docile as the Arkham attendants forced and brainwashed him to be. The brilliant flicker in his eye told you there was more to him, more strength to him than what Doctor Strange could see. The small smirk that curved the corner of his mouth sent the signal that he registered your remark with his own subtle response.

“It has been a long time since I played chess,” You said coolly, smirking at him. “When exactly do we stop playing?”

“Until the game is won.”

“Do you play games, Mr. Cobblepot?”

“Only if I know I’ll end up winning.” Oswald said innocently, although there was a certain self-assurance you heard in his voice that made the fire in your soul light up like the Fourth of July.

When Oswald was released from Arkham—whenever that would be—you would find a way to break him, not to defeat or hurt him, but to reclaim his soul back to the rightful mindset that he was and the crime lord he was meant to become. You were certain of _that_.

 


End file.
